Part 1:Cool Amber Liquid
by Knockin' Harder
Summary: It's an Electra fic. After the movie... after surgery (to make sure no one from the ISSP or military can kill her), it deals with a ring of Red Eye dealers.


Cowboy Bebop copyright 1998 Emotion, Sunrise Inc., and Bandai Visual Co. limited. English adaptation copyright 1999 Animevillage. Thought I'd throw in the legal crap… I can't afford any legal battles, ever since I stalked the Seatbelts… anyways. I'd like to thank my editor… well my friend April. She said she wanted a fic. about Electra. Sorry if I piss anyone off.

_Part 1: Cool Amber Liquid_

Swiveling around on an old creaky barstool, she scoped the "crush". Well no existing "crush" to speak of. A number of the booths around the poorly lit bar were emptier than tanked ship, even the rats had abandoned this place. Three old codgers sat in the back, yipping over their "high speed" checkers game, and three callow women in a corner booth.

They seemed out of place. A dingy, low class, low booze joint. The neon lights were half broken, an old earth-style jukebox playing in the corner. It had been stuck on the same song since she had walked in two days ago, something about gaining an empty wallet, losing a heart, and a car, in about a day's time.

_That person's luck is about the same as mine,_ she thought, wiping a bit of moisture from the top of her brow.

A layer of dust, an inch thick, established itself among an odd assortment of dead soldiers arranged on the bar. Noticeable mug rings camouflaged the old wooden façade, as she tapped her fingernails repeatedly. The bartender shambled down to her direction.

"Can I help you miss?" his graveling voice belied the packs of cigarettes he smoked.

"Yes, I would like a scotch on the rocks."

The older gentleman reached behind, blew some dust out of the "clean" glass, and poured an amber-colored liquid, followed by three cubes of ice. He quietly placed the glass down, and stared long and hard into the iced eyes in front of his. There was a fascination with her features. Wide almond-shaped eyes were incrusted with faded silver retinas. The eyes were remarkably framed by muted blonde hair that mussed around a lean jaw line. A scar curved from the corner of her right eye to the corner of her luscious mouth. This blemished her bronzed skin.

"There's your scotch." He limped back to his corner.

Tipping the glass in his direction in salute, he patiently waited for his fee. Pulling out a wad of woolong, she metered his reaction. She slid a large amount on the scared bar, and kept her fingers on the bill. Gnarled digits slowly grabbed the amount; he waited for the bronzed fingers to release the amount. She motioned her head for another round, which he gladly poured out. Today, he could afford more than just ramen. Today, he thought, I'll buy duck.

"What do the young do for fun around here?"

"There's not much miss. There are ponies on the fourth level, crap games on the fifth, and musical entertainment on the sixth."

_Hmmmm, though a good pony run would be entertaining, music is for the young._

"I'll have another scotch. And keep the change," with a wink the old man smiled.

Down the hatch went the last of the bought liquor.

_Hmmm, that worked, like a charm,_ she thought. Again, she glanced around the shrouded bar. 

The haze of the bar made her "newly" dyed eyes burn and itch. Like Spike and Jet had promised, no one had given her a second glance at the ISSP station. Her former self didn't exist anymore. She was the proverbial ghost; the same smoke that spun and slithered through the bar was her past. It just disappeared. This was her life now, she chose when and who, but the pay however was a different story. With this type of work the woolong 's were far and few between.

This was her pay off… The Sirens: Red Eye smugglers where the hardest to bring down in this part of the spatial plain. Unfortunately, they also abused the product. The high and dilution given was devastating. One person was seen to have taken down three squads of ISSP special ops. Of course, that really didn't prove that much. A joker with a side shooter could take down a single squad. A joker on Red Eye was on a berserk mode. She felt the corner of her mouth draw up, _this will be like taking a Ramen cup from a sleeping Ed._

With that sentimental thought, she turned. Her long limbs brushed the softened leather of her new black jacket that covered the tattoo that she didn't want removed. She worked hard to get the dyed needle to the skin: hours of training, gunfire, and many sacrifices.

It was the reminder of her connections, her love, and her life. It was the last residue of her past. Her heart was in the past; or rather it dwelled in the past. 


End file.
